To Dorothy Wellesley - Poem by William Butler Yeats

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STRETCH towards the moonless midnight of the trees,As though that hand could reach to where they stand,And they but famous old upholsteriesDelightful to the touch; tighten that handAs though to draw them closer yet.Rammed fullOf that most sensuous silence of the night(For since the horizon's bought strange dogs are still)Climb to your chamber full of books and wait,No books upon the knee, and no one thereBut a Great Dane that cannot bay the moonAnd now lies sunk in sleep.What climbs the stair?Nothing that common women ponder onIf you are worrh my hope! Neither ContentNor satisfied Conscience, but that great familySome ancient famous authors mistepresent,The proud Furies each with her torch on high.